The stars are in our belly; the Milky Way our umbilicus.
Is it a consolation that the stuff of which we’re made
is star-stuff too?
– That wherever you go you can never fully disappear –
dispersal only: carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen.
Tree, rain, coal, glow-worm, horse, gnat, rock.
Sunday, 26 June 2011
poem: at the edge of the clearing
grasses at their zenith
and the sky's blue
noisy with the ghost of pigment
intensity of photons
wind in the east
jostling the shrubs in the courtyard
tweaking the flowers' ears
jinking in my hair
ahead of us on the track
a couple of small hazy clouds
pretend to stand tall
on the horizon
at the edge of the clearing
our future and possible selves linger
waiting to see
what path we notice
and what would it take then
for us to crack and peel back
these ingrown carapaces
that we might stand whole
and bright before the Other
to recalibrate the curtilage
of the heart
that it might become a meadow
for us to trust that we might
enter that meadow, lie down
for as long as we need to
maybe even forever?
– Roselle Angwin
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- Elements of Poetry Part 1: poetry & the heart
- the bird of paradise
- the buzzard's feather
- poem: at the edge of the clearing
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- Radio 4's Poetry Workshop and 13-line sonnets
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- notes from Prussia Cove
- poem: not in our name
- the quiet revolution
- The compass of the heart
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